Poul Anderson: The Sorrow of Odin the Goth

“Think. You have readiness to fare west, and a welcome awaiting you among the Visigoths. It will be the warmer for the rout Athanaric suffered this year from the Huns at the River Dnestr; they all need fresh and hopeful souls. Within a few days, you can be leading the trek. Ermanaric’s men, when they come, will find nothing but the ashes of this hall, which you set afire to keep from him and be a balefire in honor of your brothers.

“You will not be fleeing. No, you will be off to forge a mighty morrow. Alawin, you now keep the blood of your fathers. Ward it well.”

Wrath twisted Ulrica’s face. “Yes, you’ve always dealt in smooth words,” shuddered out of her. “Heed not his slyness, Alawin. Hold fast. Avenge my sons—the sons of Tharasmund.”

The youth swallowed hard. “Would you really… have me go… while the murderer of Swanhild, Randwar, Hathawulf, Solbern—while he lives?” he stammered.

“You must not stay,” said the Wanderer gravely. “If you do, you will give up the last life that was in your father—give it up to the king, along with Hathawulf’s son and wife, and your own mother. There is no dishonor—in withdrawal when outnumbered.”

“Y-yes.… I could hire a Visigothic host—”

“You will have no call to. Hearken. Within three years, you will hear word about Ermanaric that will gladden you. The justice of the gods shall fall upon him. On this I give you my oath.”

“What is that worth?” fleered Ulrica.

Alawin filled his lungs, straightened his shoulders, stood for a while and then said quietly, “Stepmother, be still. I am the man of the house. We will follow the Wanderer’s rede.”

The boy in him burst through for a moment: “Oh, but lord, forebear—will we indeed never see you again? Do not forsake us!”

“I must,” answered the Gray One. “It is needful for you.” Suddenly: “Yes, best I go at once. Farewell. Fare ever well.”

He strode through the shadows, out the door, into the rain and the wind.

Here and there amidst the ages, the Time Patrol keeps places where its members may rest. Among them is Hawaii before the Polynesians arrived. Although that resort exists through thousands of years, Laurie and I counted ourselves lucky to get a cottage for a month. In fact, we suspected Manse Everard had pulled a string or two on our behalf.

He made no mention of that when he visited us late in our stay. He was simply affable, went picnicking and surfing in our company, afterward tucked into Laurie’s dinner with the gusto it deserved. Not till later did he speak of what lay behind us and before us on our world lines.

We sat on a deck which abutted the building.

Dusk gathered cool and blue in the garden, across the flowering forest beyond. Eastward, land dropped steeply to where the sea glimmered quicksilver; westward, the evening star trembled above Mauna Kea. A brook chimed. Here was the peace that heals.

“So you feel ready to return?” Everard inquired.

“Yes,” I said. “And it’ll be a lot easier, too. The groundwork has been laid, the basic information collected and assimilated. I just have to record the songs and stories as they are composed and evolve.”

“Just!” exclaimed Laurie. Her mockery was tender, and became solace as she laid a hand over mine. “Well, at least you are free of your grief.”

Everard’s voice dropped low: “Are you sure of that, Carl?”

I could be calm as I replied, “Yes. Oh, there will always be memories that hurt, but isn’t that the common fate of man? There are more that are good, and I’m able to draw on them once again.”

“You realize, of course, you mustn’t get obsessed the way you were. That’s a hazard which claims many of us—” Did his tone stumble, ever so slightly? It grew brisk. “When it does, the victim has to overcome it and recover.”

“I know,” I said, and chuckled a bit. “Don’t you know I know?”

Everard puffed on his pipe. “Not exactly. Since the rest of your career seems free of any more disarray than is normal for a field agent, I couldn’t justify spending lifespan and Patrol resources on further investigation. This isn’t official business. I’m here as a friend, who’d simply like to find out how you’re doing. Don’t tell me anything you don’t care to.”

“You’re a sweet old bear, you are,” Laurie said to him.

I could not stay entirely comfortable, but a sip of my rum collins soothed. “Well, sure, you’re welcome to the information,” I began. “I did assure myself that Alawin would be all right.” Everard stirred. “How?” he demanded. “Not to worry, Manse. I proceeded cautiously, for the most part indirectly. Different identities on different occasions. The few times he glimpsed me, he recognized nothing.” My fingers passed over a smooth-shaven chin—Roman style, like my close-cropped hair; and when the need arises, a Patrolman has advanced disguise technology at his service. “Oh, yes, I’ve laid the Wanderer to rest.”

“Good!” Everard relaxed back into his chair. “What did become of that lad?”

“Alawin, you mean? Well, he led a fair-sized group, including his mother Erelieva and her household, he led them west to join Frithigern.” (He would lead them, three centuries hence. But we were talking our native English. The Temporal language has appropriate tenses.) “He enjoyed favor there, especially after he was baptized. That by itself was reason for letting the Wanderer fade away, you understand. How could a Christian stay close to a heathen god?”

“Hm. I wonder what he thought about those experiences, later.”

“I get the impression he kept his mouth shut. Naturally, if his descendants—he married well—if his descendants preserved any tradition about it, they’d suppose that some kind of spook had been running around in the old country.”

“The old country? Oh, yes. Alawin never got back to the Ukraine, did he?”

“No, hardly. Would you like me to sketch the history for you?”

“Please. I did study it somewhat, in connection with your case, but not much of the aftermath. Besides, that was quite a spell ago, on my world line.”

And plenty must have happened to you since, I thought. Aloud: “Well, in 374 Frithigern’s people crossed the Danube, by permission, and settled in Thrace. Athanaric’s soon followed, although into Transylvania. Hunnish pressure had gotten too severe.

“The Roman officials abused and exploited the Goths—in other words, were a government—for several years. Finally the Goths decided they’d had a bellyful, and revolted. The Huns had given them the idea and technique of developing cavalry, which they made heavy; at the battle of Adrianople in 378 it rode the Romans down. Alawin distinguished himself there, by the way, which started him toward the prominence he achieved. A new Emperor, Theodosius, made peace with the Goths in 381, and most of their warriors entered the Roman service as foederati: allies, we’d say.

“Afterward came renewed conflicts, battles, migrations—the Volkerwanderung was under way. I’ll sum it up for my Alawin by saying that after a turbulent but basically happy life, he died, at a ripe old age, in the kingdom which by then the Visigoths had carved out for themselves in southern Gaul. Descendants of his took a leading part in founding the Spanish nation. “So you see how I can let that family go from me, and get on with my work.”

Laurie’s hand closed hard around mine.

Twilight was becoming night. Stars blinked forth. A coal in Everard’s pipe made its own red twinkle. He himself was a darkling bulk, like the mountain that lifted above the western horizon.

“Yes,” he mused, “it comes back to me, sort of. But you’ve been speaking about the Visigoths. The Ostrogoths, Alawin’s original countrymen—didn’t they take over in Italy?”